The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Did you check the call record on his mobile phone bill? GPS on his phone and car?’

  She nods a tight little yes.

  ‘Good. At least you’re thinking straight. You’d be amazed at the number of clients who don’t.’

  ‘I even managed to get my hands on his credit card statement too,’ Katherine goes on, ‘and there it was – all the proof anyone would need. Bastard even took her away on a weekend to a five-star spa retreat down the country. I don’t know what annoyed me more – that he did it in the first place, or that he was stupid enough to pay with a card, so there was a paper trail.’

  ‘Did you confront him with it?’

  ‘You bet I did,’ says Katherine, in a barely audible voice. ‘And, of course, he denied, denied, denied everything. Then he blamed the campaign, then came out with a load of horse dung about how I’m so focused on re-election, I’ve lost the run of myself and was throwing out baseless accusations willy-nilly.’

  ‘Gaslighting you, in other words?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  I nod and listen and drink it all in and take a moment to think, for fuck’s sake, why are people so bloody stupid? So careless of other people’s feelings? What’s the point of being in a relationship in the first place, if you’re only going to shit all over the other person and humiliate them in the worst way imaginable? And, in this case, fuck up their career in the process. No, I can’t let that happen. Not on my watch.

  I’ve been at this game for two years now and it still makes me boil with hot, irrational anger, every single time. I park it though, just like I’ve schooled myself to. Because that’s the only thing to be done with feelings that run too high. And I thank my lucky stars that I’m far too smart to bother getting into a relationship in the first place. Curious thing I’ve observed about people in love; they invariably turn into a shower of self-absorbed, self-sabotaging lunatics.

  Someone should really run a scientific study on the subject.

  ‘You just leave Philip to me,’ I say to Katherine, taking control again. ‘Dealing with cheaters is all part of the service.’

  I could have added that this is actually the single best part of the job, the bit I’d gladly do for free. The Almighty Comeuppance, I’ve termed it. Making sure the punishment aptly fits the crime. Giving the Philip Sisks of this world all the retribution and humiliation they so richly deserve. Like a cross between some kind of karmic angel of retaliation and the Terminator.

  Christ knows, I’ve every good reason to enjoy it.

  ‘What do you plan to do with him?’ Katherine asks, frowning worriedly over her glasses. ‘Nothing that upsets my girls, I hope?’

  ‘Your daughters will never know a thing,’ I reassure her. ‘But for now, my first task is to get his mistress clean out of the picture and make sure she’ll never bother you again. I’m going to need her full name, plus any other personal details you can give me. Anything. Trust me, I’ll need whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘She’s called Jess Butler,’ Katherine says, taking care to keep her voice good and low. ‘She’s thirty-four years old and she’s been on my team for over a year now. And I’ve been so torn about whether to let her go or not. On the one hand, she’s my PR and I’m desperately dependent on her, but on the other, having to look at her day in and day out is just too much to bear right now. How can she do it?’ Katherine’s voice starts to sound choked with frustration. ‘How can she sit there and let me pay her wages and work hard to get me re-elected, and all the time she’s shagging my husband behind my back?’

  ‘Letting Jess go now is the very worst thing you could possibly do,’ I say to her, horrified. ‘Whatever she’s done, she deserves fifty per cent of the blame, and no more. She is, after all, a single woman, whereas your husband is still very much a married man. He’s the one that made the commitment, he’s the one that made promises to you.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Jess keeps working on my team?’ Katherine says, clearly not used to being told what to do.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you straight out that if you want my help, then that’s exactly what you have to do.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . I am human, you know,’ Katherine says, in a pitifully quiet voice. ‘Have you any idea how it is for me, seeing her and Philip supposedly working together every time I come into the office?’

  ‘From now on, Jess is my problem, not yours,’ I tell her crisply. ‘Besides, changing your team this close to the election would be a huge mistake, and that’s before we even discuss my strategy to fix this. In the meantime, you have to try and detach yourself from the whole thing.’

  Katherine rests her head back wearily against her chair and looks utterly defeated.

  Which I take as my cue to toughen her up a bit.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, in a tone that brooks no contradiction. ‘You’re a politician, you don’t need me to tell you to go out there and smile and act like everything is hunky-dory, even at a time like this. There’s an old saying: don’t get emotional, get even. We need to keep Jess close to hand, because that’s the best possible way for me to get to work on her. You need to get re-elected and I need to clean up the mess. Jess Butler, you said?’

  Within milliseconds, I’m on my phone searching for Jess Butler’s Twitter handle and Instagram account – social media is always a good place to start.

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I’m being a complete doormat here,’ Katherine says, trying to claw back a bit of pride, while I’m busily scrolling. ‘Because I’m ready to throw Philip out over this and have done with him. I’m a feminist first and last, that’s the platform I stand on. It’s unbelievably hard for any woman to work in public life in the first place – and to think that all this could be derailed, just because my husband is a lying arse who can’t keep his dick to himself? If it wasn’t for the election being so close . . .’

  ‘Your job,’ I tell her again, still glued to my phone, ‘is to focus on your campaign and get re-elected. So you can start right now by telling Jess that you’ve drafted me in to help you out a bit, and that she and I are going to be working closely together in the next week.

  ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ I say abruptly, ready to go, as Katherine looks up at me dumbly, like she’s just witnessed a tornado up close, ‘my job is to take out the trash.’

  *

  On my way out of the office, I spot Jess’s distinctive coppery mane of curly hair and make a point of ‘casually’ passing by her desk.

  ‘Didn’t get a chance to say hi properly,’ I say to her, all warm and friendly, instantly switching character and persona, which is not the easiest thing to do, but then I’ve had a lot of practice.

  ‘Because I’m actually hoping I might get to join the team soon,’ I add. All smiles. All charm. ‘My interview with Katherine went well just now, so fingers crossed!’

  Jess is on the phone but gives a quick thumbs up sign and waves to indicate she’s on a call she can’t get off. Meanwhile, I grab the chance to really have a good look at the woman, doing what I always do. My thing, in other words.

  Features: pale, white, freckly Irish skin, but you’d never know it underneath all that fake tan.

  Hair: appears to be a natural red, but up close, it’s actually not at all. Impeccably maintained though – where does she find the time to go to a hairdresser? Curls are wild and free falling past her shoulders. Overall effect? Sexy. Beguiling. Like she was out till all hours last night and didn’t even get a chance to run a brush through it on her way into work.

  Dress sense: boho chic. Floral dress, Penney’s. There’s a cropped denim jacket over the back of her chair – Zara, about two years old, at a rough guess.

  Handbag: overstuffed and lying wide open by the desk. A phone charger is clearly visible at the top of it and, interestingly, a second phone, tucked into a discreet corner.

  Only drug dealers or people having affairs ever have two phones, I know of old, making
a mental note to try to get my paws on that phone as soon as I get a reasonable chance.

  ‘I’m locking down PrimeNews,’ Jess mouths at me. ‘Just on hold.’

  ‘No worries,’ I beam back brightly. ‘I’ll leave you to it. And if things go my way, hopefully I’ll be seeing you again soon. Very soon.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ Jess hisses.

  Oh, luck has nothing to do with it, I think, mind like ice as a game plan slowly begins to form. But, outwardly, I smile at Jess. I even wave a friendly little goodbye.

  I’m just about to leave, when, next thing, the office door bursts wide open and the man himself breezes in, weighed down with a clatter of heavy-looking boxes. The root cause of all of Katherine’s pain and humiliation. It’s him all right, I think, coldly drinking him in. The raven–black hair so unnaturally dark it can only be dyed, the tall, wiry build, the slight stoop, almost as if to compensate for being so tall and lean.

  Definitely no mistaking him. Philip Sisk himself.

  There’s a woman in the office inside, I think; a good woman. A woman who’s working hard, and doing her best to make life a little easier for others. And right now, that woman is a shaky, vulnerable mess. All because of you, you prick, with your roving bloody eye.

  A familiar hot surge of bile begins to bubble up inside me as Philip inches his way through the door, boxes balanced precariously, one on top of the other.

  I try to squeeze my way past him, fake-sincerely saying, ‘Oops! Excuse me, sorry! Am I in your way?’

  Then Philip trips.

  This may have been deliberate on my part. I may well have purposely stuck my foot out, so he’d fall over.

  Then again, maybe I didn’t.

  ‘Bugger, shit, poo and bollocks,’ Philip swears, losing his balance and landing flat on his arse, as three of the boxes slip from the top-heavy pile he’s balancing and go flying, scattering dozens and dozens of fliers with Katherine’s photo emblazoned on them all over the floor. ‘Feck’s sake, somebody give me a hand, will you?’

  Quick as a flash, I switch personality, instantly diving down on my hands and knees to help.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, flashing an angelic smile. ‘Did I bump into you?’

  ‘Lazy man’s load,’ Philip says, as the two of us scoop up everything we can and put the fliers back into neat, tidy piles. ‘Serves me right.’

  Then, realising that I’m fresh new meat, he stands up to his full height and instantly sticks out his hand to introduce himself.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ he says, towering over me, eyeing me up and down appreciatively, in a way that, frankly, makes me want to gag.

  I shake hands with him, noticing how hot and clammy his skin is.

  You’re on high alert, I think. Pupils dilated, face flushed – give me enough time, and I could probably take his pulse.

  ‘I’m Philip Sisk,’ he grins, his manner easy and charming, a man who introduces himself to the masses a thousand times a day. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Meg Monroe. I’ve been drafted in to help Katherine. And Jess too, of course.’

  At that, I turn around and give a little wave in Jess’s direction. But Jess doesn’t acknowledge me, or Philip either for that matter. Instead she acts like she hadn’t even noticed that Philip’s arrived. The only person in the office who didn’t look up, not even when he fell.

  Stupid girl, giving herself away like that. Why are idiots having illicit affairs so fucking thick? Don’t they realise how easy they are to spot? They’re the only ones who ignore each other to the point of rudeness, whenever there’s other people present.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Meg,’ Philip smiles. ‘Good to have you on board – and welcome to the team.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I answer as politely as I can, my smile hardening, growing slow and calculating.

  Then, to cheer myself up, I think of the furies of hell that are about to be unleashed on him, and whaddya know?

  My smile grows even wider.

  Chapter Four

  Meg

  Same day, yet another case.

  Told you I’m in demand.

  *

  ‘You’re so good to drive me.’

  ‘Hey, what are friends for?’ I smile from behind the steering wheel.

  ‘I never even knew you had a car.’

  I don’t, actually, I think, eyes trained dead ahead on the road in front of me. I hired the car especially for this, but, of course, that’s hardly something I’m about to divulge.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ says my companion, who goes by the self-invented name of Bella Bumble, and who describes herself as an ‘online creator and style queen’. Which, as far as I can see, effectively means Bella somehow manages to get paid for lounging around in her pyjamas all day, while posing for highly filtered Instagram shots, then boring her legions of followers with her ‘hashtag perfect’ life. Hashtag ‘blessed’.

  Hashtag vomit, more like.

  Right now, Bella’s flicking away at her waist-length, ash blonde hair extensions, fiddling with her phone and double-checking her make-up in the visor mirror so much, it’s started to become grating.

  ‘I’m nervous and I shouldn’t be nervous,’ she says. ‘I mean, like . . . what the hell have I got to be nervous about?’

  I judge it best to say nothing.

  ‘I mean, he’s the one who should be nervous, not me,’ she says, working herself up into a right state. ‘He should be in bits right now. He should be on total tenterhooks, wondering if I’ll even show up or not. After last time.’

  ‘I know,’ I say absent-mindedly, indicating into the lane for Dublin airport.

  ‘It’s just that . . . well, we’ve had weekends away together before and it’s never exactly been a barrel of laughs for me, if I’m being honest . . .’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘I mean . . . he says he’s leaving his wife and all that . . . but . . . sure that’s what they all say, isn’t it?’

  I continue to stay silent.

  ‘And the last time we did this, it was, like, seriously sick. I mean, every time his phone rang, he nearly had a coronary. Every single time. Total passion-killer, if you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I hear you,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Then there’s the way he keeps talking about his kids,’ Bella says, jumpy and tense as she checks her make-up for about the twentieth time. ‘How young they are and how much he misses them. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I ask you! We get so little time together as it is, you know. So, is it, like, selfish of me not to want to listen to how his daughter, who he thinks is the next Mozart by the way, is able to play all the verses of “Let it Go” in her Grade 2 piano exams? If you ask me, he’s the one who’s being selfish, the way he goes on about his family all the time. I put up with a lot, you know, Meg. An awful lot.’

  I just nod and focus on the road ahead, instinct telling me this is by far the best course of action.

  ‘His little boy is only six and he acts like he’s the next Lionel Messi. I mean . . . honestly . . . I shit you not. Nothing against kids, but when you don’t have any, it’s, like . . . SO boring.’

  Again, no response from me. Just the sound of an ambulance siren, as we grind to a halt, stuck in rush-hour traffic.

  ‘Meg, you’re very quiet. Do you think I’m mad to do this? I mean, tell me honestly, do you think I’m mad? Come on, we’re friends, you can say what you really think.’

  ‘I think you’re possibly having second thoughts,’ I say calmly, sensing that the conversation is finally beginning to shift in the right direction.

  ‘Tell me the truth. Do you think he’s ever going to leave her?’

  At that, I suck in my cheeks.

  ‘You really want to know what I think?’

  ‘I really want to know,’ says Bella jumpily. ‘Definitely. Maybe. No, definitely. Go on. For fuck’s sake, just tell me.’

  ‘Well, here’s what I don’t get,’ I say, care
ful to sound like I’m genuinely puzzled. ‘Your boyfriend has two kids, a mortgage and a cat and a dog. And then there’s his wife, who he doesn’t seem to have any problem cheating on and lying to. So maybe he’ll break up with her and maybe he won’t. But what you have to ask yourself is – is this really what you’re settling for? A forty-one-year-old man who cycles around in Lycra and who works as a security guard and who doesn’t tip properly when you’re out and who hides you away from the world and who lies like it’s second nature? Someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the word commitment and brings a lot of baggage with him? Do you really need me to go on?’

  ‘I know, I hear you,’ Bella says doubtfully.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And you’re right about the Lycra – he just doesn’t have the arse for it. I’ve told him, like, loads of times, but he never listens to me.’

  ‘You know what’s the worst part of all this?’ I tell her, gently pushing my case, sensing I’m close to victory.

  ‘Go on, tell me. As my friend. My best friend.’

  God love you if you think I’m your best friend. This one is quite insecure enough, thanks very much, without the thoughts that her ‘best friend’ is actually being paid and paid handsomely to be in her life.

  ‘OK then,’ I tell her, judging that the time is right and indicating to pull over onto the hard shoulder so she and I can talk eye-to-eye. ‘In that case, here it is.’

  I take a deep breath and brace myself for a good, stout lie. But at this stage in the game, it feels like I was born to fake sincerity.

  ‘Just look at you, Bella, you’re fabulous,’ I say. ‘Not only are you jaw-droppingly gorgeous, but you’re beautiful on the inside too. Where it really counts.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Bella says, like this is nothing less than her due. ‘That’s the eyelash extensions. They make me look like a Disney princess. Everyone says so.’

  ‘You’re . . . kind and . . . friendly and super-successful . . . and you’ve got a fantastic job and you’re living your best life,’ I say, digging deep to lavish on the compliments. ‘The only thing dragging you down and holding you back is that you fell in love with someone unavailable. So ask yourself – is this really what you’re prepared to settle for? Don’t you think you deserve so much better?’